


The History Books Lied

by only_wondering



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Tower, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Domestic Avengers, Gen, M/M, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Natasha Romanov, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Being Tony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-02 10:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14542989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_wondering/pseuds/only_wondering
Summary: It’s 2012. Everything’s different, except it’s all still the same. Steve and Bucky and the Avengers in the 21st Century.





	1. Failing

**Author's Note:**

> So, I’ve read quite a bit of Stucky stuff on here, but could never find a story quite like what was in my head. Mostly Steve’s POV, with a few chapters from other characters. As canon compliant as possible, but allowing for story direction as well.

2012\. It’s 2012. And Steve is alive. He died in 1945, or so he thought, or assumed he was going to. He didn’t. Everyone was dead, so he thought, but Peggy was still around. She’d waited, all these years, and he came back in the nick of time. 

The timeline was muddy. It was 1945, he was putting the plane into the ice, mourning and grieving hoping all the water he let flow into his lungs would fill up all the holes the war had carved into him. It didn’t. He could have fought it more, found a better place to land, listened to Peggy’s coaxing of a happy future. But he couldn’t have that, not then. He felt too broken, by the war, by death, by defeat. By Bucky. He had fought, and bled, and killed for the safety of the world, and yet Bucky was stolen right out of his grasp. 

Peggy was there, through it all, bloodshed and hardship and struggle. She knew the war, she knew Steve as he was then, but not like he was before. Steve from brooklyn was a starry eyed dreamer who thought the war was just and was in love with his best friend. 

Steve in the war was a melancholy soldier who clung desperately to his hopes and his dreams, his morals and his loves. It was so, so much harder in the war. Loving was harder, sleeping was harder, dying harder too. 

Peggy could have given him something, he loved her like the stars, and yet. It felt hard. Peggy handled the war perfectly. Her shoulders didn’t droop like his did, her eyes never looked like she’d spent a whole night with them wide open. Maybe it was her position, deep in bureaucracy, rare she was ever in the field with him. She hadn’t busted bases and liberated camps like he had. Her shoes were never spattered with blood and mud like his were. She hadn’t seen the horrors that he had. 

It didn’t help he was grieving another love lost, hadn’t even made it fully through his mind that he’d lost his soulmate at the time. Sure, they were all good together, but losing Bucky left a hole in both their hearts. So it felt unbearable to keep the kind of attitude that Peggy did. A shield (hah) against all of the pain they had both endured. How many walls would he have to put up against the world? Against all the emotions, the vulnerability, the heartbreak that came with the war? 

Captain America wasn’t sad, or broken, or shell shocked. He couldn’t be normal, now. And whatever or whoever he was after all of this, it certainly wasn’t normal. Peggy wanted normal, or at least something like it. She needed Steve, needed him to be there for her, and he just couldn’t. At least in ‘45. 

He was too desperate, too broken. He felt like no one could fix him, no one even noticed he needed help. He played the confident Captain so well, that nobody thought he could be anything else. 

But Steve wasn’t always confident. He didn’t always have the right words, wasn’t always a perfect leader, wasn’t always able to save everybody. He wasn’t sure if he could deal with the pressure that came with going home. He’d read the cheap propaganda comics they’d printed back home, he knew what people would be expecting. 

There’d be parades, newsreels, interviews, and not just now in the excitement of the end of the war. For all he knew it might just never stop. If Steve Rogers went home, he’d never be Steve Rogers again. 

Goodbye Brooklyn.


	2. 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2012 is a lot. More than Steve might be able to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as part of my rearranging of this whole story, chapter 2 has been revised. Sorry for the confusion, but thanks for reading!

Well, 2012 was... He wasn’t sure. It was a hell of a lot different he could tell you that. It was both better and worse all at once. And it was beyond confusing. The war was over, or so they told him. But he was still fighting, for America they told him, but he didn’t put much faith in all of that. There was no point with faith in fighting. The world was doing well though, Europe had fixed old wounds, wars were only secret now, and the U.S. was prosperous.

Sort of.

Poverty was still there, there was a recession a few years before he woke up that hurt a lot of people, many didn’t have healthcare, incarceration was high, but most were ok.

The middle class was huge now, everybody was a consumer. Everything was a product. It seemed as though everyone had completely forgotten his time, people dying in Hoovervilles, a quarter of the population unable to find work, war rationing so taxing they had nearly never got a full meal. At least if the world of today had forgotten, it meant they never had to deal with something like that.  
The culture had changed so much, he wasn’t even sure what was the most shocking. There was a black president, which was beyond jarring considering the last time he was awake a few of the commandos couldn’t have even used the same bathroom as him. Everything else was integrated too, but people were still racist shitheads. And sexist shitheads. And homophobic shitheads.

The homophobes were the worst. It was their shit he’d had to live in fear of back in the forties, and to think even now with all the laws and protections and security that he didn’t have, people still got hurt. It cut deep. He’d loved Bucky like no one else, and he burned at the thought that if were here with him then, people would still be raging at the thought of a gay Captain America. Well jokes on them, bisexual (there was a word for it now), not gay.

Not everything changed, but a lot did.

Germany was a friend now, and Russia wasn’t. Korea split itself in two, Japan calmed down, China had become a superpower, and Vietnam was a harsh, dark black spot in U.S. history that Steve still didn’t quite understand. It seemed painful for some, so he didn’t ask.  
The Middle East was a puzzling mess that he couldn’t understand. People flew flags and bombed cities and chopped off reporters’ heads and no one really seemed to care. It was a passing issue here, if there was a proposed solution it was lost in board meetings and bureaucrats talking endlessly.

The 10 Rings had kidnapped their lead weapons manufacturer and broken a criminal out of a high security prison and yet everybody seemed to let events play out in its own little bubble there. There was nothing he could do really, he may be a super soldier, but even he couldn’t end a war singlehandedly. 

At the end of the day, he was happy to be alive, as alone as he was. He wasn’t starving, or poor, just heartbroken. He read up on everything because it was all he could do. There wasn’t really anyone there for Steve these days. 

Regardless, living and breathing, even if it hurt at times, was better than nothing.


	3. D.C.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new world is strange, confusing, and messed up. But nothing Steve hasn’t faced already. Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this might be super confusing if you’ve already started reading, but for everything I’ve written over the last few weeks to make sense, I had to switch around chapters 2 and 3. So enjoy this as a new chapter, with plenty more coming soon now that I’m done with finals. Thanks for reading, and sorry for the confusion!

Steve remembered the first time he met them.

His future.

He didn’t know it, not then, he just tried to play it cool. Hello ma’am, Mr. Stark, Dr. Banner, shake hands and try to smile. Keep your guard up. These guys are strangers, don’t let yourself crack.

But by the time they were all there together, in the room with the scepter, shouting and slinging insults, he’d regretted ever coming. These people were criminals, assholes, and worst, unheroic. He remembered, clear as day, standing there eye to eye with Stark wondering how in hell this guy could be considered a hero. What was the world now if the only people fighting for it was a bunch of angry assassins and douchebag billionaires?

And then, so suddenly, it all slipped away. It was like a cloud lifted from his head. It all looked so clear, he was running and leading and making calls and punching aliens and he felt better. Not great, not perfect, better. Suddenly Tony was funnier, Natasha seemed more sincere, Thor more fun and less aggressive. All of a sudden, they were a team. And, even better, after the fighting was over they all were all still together. Mostly.

But, Fury rang him one day, around the end of 2012, asking him to come to Washington. They really wanted him to get back to regular missions. America still needed defending. And Natasha wanted him back too.

. . . .

“Hey there Soldier.”

“Nat, It’s good to see you again.”

“Liking D.C. so far? I think the last time you were around here, you were taking a connection through Washington-Reagan in a refrigerated crate.”

“I guess so.” He said flatly. “Wanna give me the tour? I don’t know nearly as many ways to kill time in D.C. than I did in Brooklyn.”

She smirked thoughtfully at him, considering the options.

“I have had quite a bit of fun touring all the Smithsonian Museums. I think you’ll be pleased to know that they finally got that exhibit on all your old adventures up and running.”

Yeah, he’d nearly forgotten that bit. The Smithsonian had curated an exhibit with all the old relics. Some stuff out of the ice, some out of SHIELD storage. He hadn’t been yet.

Together he and Natasha trekked down to the Air and Space Museum (why put it there?) to take a look. He pulled on his baseball cap, they bought tickets, walked up to the 2nd floor and stepped into the exhibit and...

Oh and all of a sudden Steve was crying.

In front of Natasha.

Shit.

Goddamnit Steve.

He was walking in, and then he saw his old uniform, and then the newsreels, and then Bucky, and then he was crying. He was trying, desperately, to shove the sobs down his throat, keep a brave face, not make a fool of himself, but he felt like he was breaking apart at the seams. He let out a strained half-sob, and Natasha’s head swiveled towards him faster than he thought possible. Her face dropped when she saw his expression.

“I’m sorry Steve, I..” The corners of her mouth turned downwards and she struggled over her words for a moment. “I never meant to upset you... we should go.”

“No, Natasha, I’m.. I’m okay” He said a little harshly at first, his voice a raw whisper.

“Steve.” She half-whispered his name, her eyes searching and knowing. “I get it. It’s too much, this was a mistake.” She nodded slightly, looking comforting, yet worried.

“Natasha.” He said darkly. “I can do this. I’m strong, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“You don’t have to be strong right now. No one’s asking you to.” Her eyes were dipped with concern.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice felt hoarse and rough, like if he spoke another word his throat might just collapse in on itself. “I’m a soldier, I’m a Captain, if I can’t get past this, I’m weak.”

“Who ever said you were weak?”

He took a shuddering breath before responding. “Everybody before 1942.” He drew his shoulders together, bringing himself into a more guarded stance.

“It’s not 1942 anymore. You have the freedom to be...” She gave a heavy sigh. “Open, vulnerable, now. Don’t think you’re weak.”

“But I am. Always have been. I just got better at hiding it.”

He could see Bucky’s smiling face in the newsreels, if he was here he’d be hugging him and chuckling and holding him and calling him a sap. That just made him sob again.

“I’d only be worried if you weren’t feeling the least bit emotional or overwhelmed. This is normal.”

“It’s just shell-shock, Nat. I’ll get over it.”

He hoped he sounded convincing. This conversation felt like a knife to the chest, the sooner it was over, the better. He just wanted to get out of here.

“Hell no.” She scowled like he’d personally insulted her. “They really didn’t catch you up at all, did they? Shell-shock isn’t just a bad mood, it’s a real mental condition. Did SHIELD set you up with a therapist yet?”

“Not yet, they offered, but...” He faltered, letting himself trail off.

“But?”

“I felt embarrassed.” His voice still sounded strained, he wasn’t used to being this exposed. “This is all new to me, and before the ice, any kind of mental help or anything was for psychos and crazy people. It’s hard to just accept that it’s not like that anymore, that nobody’s going to question it.”

“Thing is, with the friends you have, none of us would bat an eye. We all get help, we’re all trauma victims, there’s no shame.”

Steve felt a little surprised

“All of you? Nat, you seemed so put together, I didn’t think..”

“I’m put together because I go to therapy. Don’t think I haven’t had my fair share of trauma.”

She mulled over her words for a moment before continuing softly.

“You’re not messed up, Steve. You just have a past.”

He paused for a minute, letting all her words sink in.

“I’ll talk to Fury about setting something up.”

“That’s great, Steve.” She smiled, still reserved. She looked relieved. How much did she care, anyways? They’d only known each other a month or two, had a few sparse conversations in that time, and now he was opening up his soul to her. She was helping him, but she didn’t have to. At first glance that’s not something he’d assume she’d do. Still full of surprises, he supposed.

He brushed his hand over his cheek, wiping away the still flowing tears.

“Thank you for helping, you’re a good friend.”

She smiled. Bigger this time.

“Right back at you.” Still smiling. “Though in all honesty we really should get going. You up for lunch?”

He nodded slowly.

“I’m not really enjoying the crowds, though. I think that we should go somewhere quieter.”

“That’s fine.” She was still speaking so softly, like he was fragile. He didn’t need coddling.

They walked down to a little place a few blocks away, a tiny hole-in-the-wall pub. They ordered some fries, a couple drinks and sat in a booth near the back.

They made small talk, Natasha helped him with some settings on his phone (still getting used to that) and Steve doodled casually on the napkin. Natasha could probably see he didn’t want to do another deep dive into his psyche.

The sky outside the windows slowly melted into an ashy purple, the night warm and dusty.

“We might want to get going.” Nat pointed casually to the setting sun streaming through the windows behind them. “I’m not sure how far your apartment is from here.”

“Not too far.”

They took a cab, not really wanting to risk recognition on the metro. Plus, there wasn’t any issue with money these days, the government owed him a hell of a lot of backpay.

The ride home was mostly silent, but Nat spoke up a few blocks from his apartment.

“We should do this again sometime.”

“Do what, go to the Smithsonian and cry?”

She chuckled. “Less crying next time, but you’re fun to be around, Steve.”

He half-smiled, a little sad. He wouldn’t describe himself as fun.

“Honestly, you’re a good friend, you know that right?” She said with that same concern from earlier. “You’re a great person, you’re interesting, and nonjudgmental, and..” She let her words trail off, the incomplete ending hanging heavy in the air. “I like you Steve.” It was breezy, but sincere.

“Thanks, Nat. It’s good to know you care.”

Her smile seemed genuine as they rolled to a stop at his building.

“Just... if you ever need anything, come find me, okay?” She sounded so sincere, her voice a little raw, her face layered in worry. “I know what it’s like to not be okay, and to not have anyone to help you, I don’t want you to think you’re alone.”

“Thanks. I appreciate... all of this.” He still sounded apprehensive, guarded. He hated that.

The car rolled up to his building slowly.

“This is my stop, see you soon Nat.”

“Bye.”

Her face still twinged with concern, he watched as the cab pulled away.

He fell into bed unceremoniously, far too tired to think about anything more that night and let himself drift off into whatever troubled, half-restful dreams he could find.

. . . .

The next year wasn’t so bad. Natasha was great, a good friend. Yeah, yeah, he’d considered asking her out, they probably would have worked well, but... He just couldn’t. It was already so hard to adjust to this world, he didn’t think he was ready to be romantic yet. He was still getting over the last person he was intimate with, too. He thought he’d be able to get over someone who died nearly 70 years ago.

Besides, why risk ruining what he already had with Nat? She joked, she snarked, played fast and loose with him. They were comfortable with one another. She was his confidante. She was a shoulder to cry on, a person he could unload his burdens on. She knew a hell of a lot of his dirty secrets, (including the whole ‘in love with his best friend’ thing).

They had a rhythm, something Steve thought was increasingly hard to find these days. They were good. Even when it wasn’t great, it was good.

He did adjust, though, if a little slowly. He binged TV shows, read history books, filled every moment of his spare time playing catch up. He got used to some things, adapted, changed, accepted some things would never be the same.

A lot of things would never be the same.

He might never be the same.

. . . .

He went back to work as well, punching criminals, breaking down doors, fighting and running and killing. He felt himself falling down this well, this hole he was digging himself into, this pit of violence. He was losing himself. His best anchors were two-faced spies and morally ambiguous suits. He was slipping. Someone pointed at the fight, and told him who to kill. Told him who was wrong.

Eyes on him, eyes on SHIELD, eyes on the world. Even punching aliens and closing psychedelic sky portals was easier than kicking the shit out of drug soaked mercenaries. His list of people he could trust waned to only a few,

Back in the war, at least, he had a rock. Someone watching his back. Someone kissing his wounds and coaxing the sobs out of him. Someone drying his eyes at night.

Bucky loved him like no other. The commandos cared, and Peggy cared, but Peggy never kissed like Bucky. She never understood like Bucky, knew him like Bucky. She wasn’t in thick of it.

He killed, even more than Steve, but he was still Bucky. He’d been kidnapped, tortured, held prisoner. And yet, he kept his smirk, his smile, his love. He’d been through so much, and yet it seemed like he loved Steve no less. After Azzano he was thinner, more tired, bore scars and bruises that the war had marked him with. But it was Steve’s turn to kiss him better back then. They kept each other sane, kept each other safe. They were in love, but there was still a war.

The war was rough, it grew the callouses on their skin, and smeared the blood on their faces. He couldn’t stand it. But Bucky, he calmed him, coaxed him, anchored him, brought him out of his rage.

No one did that for him anymore. No one could be with Captain America, and no one knew the real Steve.

Then, it happened.

First Fury died, then SHIELD came after him, suddenly everyone was pointing guns and fingers and he felt like his moral compass was spinning circles. Then Zola was alive (and a robot? he was still a little confused on that front). Then he called in Sam. And kidnapped a man he once would have trusted. And stole from the government. And punched SHIELD agents.

But then.

Then.

Dear God then.

Bucky.

His Bucky, his love Bucky, his dead Bucky.

He was alive.

Holy fuck he was alive.

And he was trying to kill Steve.

He felt like his brain was exploding and everything else faded out and he couldn’t speak or move or do anything.

It was him.

Bucky.

Bucky.

Holy fuck.

“Bucky?”

And then

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

And then his thoughts faded to a dull murmur. He was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. Nat got shot (important), they all got arrested (important), SHIELD was going to kill them (important). But still.

Bucky.

So then Hill, and escaping the truck , and Fury wasn’t dead, and HYDRA was going to kill millions and still.

Bucky.

He was trying to kill Steve. And Sam said maybe stop him not save him, but still.

Bucky.

Was he brainwashed? A clone? A robot? As ridiculous as that all sounded, it was only a few years ago that aliens were marching through New York. Nothing was out of the question. And he’d give anything for Bucky. His life, his heart, his goddamned soul. For Bucky. Even a clone, or a robot, or a HYDRA Bucky. For a hope, for a prayer of him. For a moment of having him back. For anything.

So, on the helicarriers, even when Steve saw him throw someone through a propeller, off railings, kill in cold blood, he trusted him. Here was the only person who’d cared for him for most of his life. Who stood with him in a war. Who kissed him and bled for him and died for him. It was Bucky. It was still him. He knew him, he told him so, but the punches didn’t slow down.

Steve fought him, true. But Steve was the only one who’d ever promised to give his life for Bucky. No one else had sworn that. Not one of those innocent millions was willing to die for Bucky. So he didn’t let them. He fought for them. Not even Bucky came before the rest of the world. He saved him, and then he saved Bucky. But Bucky wasn’t Bucky then. A shell, a heartless husk, the Winter Soldier, still hellbent on killing Steve. Set on their missions, both of them. One trying to kill, the other trying to save.

Every blow was like hell on his heart but still.

Bucky.

He’d rather spend the rest of his life in this torture than kill him and still.

Bucky.

And then, he fell.

He crashed into the river, the impact hitting like a sledgehammer to his barely conscious brain. He drifted, into the deep darkness, into nothingness. He let himself fall, like with the plane, releasing control. He stopped caring about himself. He’d die for Bucky.

And he was dying for Bucky.

And then...

He wasn’t dead.

He was alive (mostly), he was awake. He had been rescued. Someone had saved him. And Steve knew who that someone was.

After a couple days in the hospital and a few press statements, he was mostly normal.

Still fucked up, but mostly normal.

And so the hunt began. Sam joining in, they searched. Chasing every lead, pulling every thread until they nearly dropped dead. He read that file that Natasha gave him a thousand times over, memorizing every word. It was him. Not some magic, or alien tech or anything. But him. The real, true, honest to goodness, James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. His Bucky.

Transformed, though. Changed. Bloodied and beaten and tortured and made into something completely unrecognizable. He’d killed. So many more than he had in the war. Children, too. They’d never killed children, or civilians. Never innocents. But he had. Brainwashed, true, but... He’d done it. The blood was still on his hands.

He’d gone through so much more than Steve had, he needed help. He needed Steve.

But he’d find him. Get him back. His Bucky. Day in, day out. Unrelentingly searching. He’d go until he found him, and healed him, and could have him as his own again.

He wouldn’t stop. Bucky needed him and he couldn’t give up. Not now, not ever.

But, hell, even Steve had his limits. Sam was great, he’d follow Steve nearly anywhere, but he was still human. And there was a definite limit on how much info they could get on Bucky. They’d followed every lead, and yet, nothing. He was invisible, but nothing unusual for an assassin (he hated saying that). So, when they couldn’t, they didn’t. Exhausting their resources, Steve went back. His SHIELD apartment was still there, but it just didn’t feel right. After about 2 weeks he was so restless and stressed he considered just picking some random spot in Europe and searching without any leads.

He packed up, ready to go home, to try to get back to some semblance of normal.

And then, he got the call.

. . . .


End file.
